The Shaman and the Messiah
by jazzypizzaz
Summary: His name is not Man of Time nor The Director nor Chrono-Man. He is not a prophet nor a god nor a software program, though he considers himself somewhat of a shaman. He is a peculiar and lonesome nineteen-year-old boy. He calls himself Abed the Undiagnosable, and he is in need of a good friend.


_The physicist and the mystic say there's no such thing as time._

_If God is now and everywhere, why's it so hard to find?_

_I wanna be the guy who lives in the moment, not so lost in my mind._

_So I guess my show starts now. My show starts now_

_Grandma said it don't matter where we go to or come from._

_She said, "Worry not about what you're made to do but what you're made of"_

_They say we're made of chaos. I say we're made of love._

_And that's why our show starts now. Our show starts now._

-"Show Starts Now" by Cloud Cult

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To most, he is known as Man of Time. They say he can see every moment in every timeline. They say he perceives life in beams of light radiating outward from every person, bumping and twisting and flickering as rays collides. To him, each beam is like an undulating film strip, playing past and potential future moments of a person's life. He is assumed to be an artist, a resource, a prophet.

Some call Him The Director. They say that not only is this how He sees the world, but that He can actually control strings of time itself. They say He controls all our actions, in an elaborate narrative to generate the Ultimate Best Story for Human Existence. Your story may not always be happy, but know that it has meaning because that is the way He deems it. To these followers, he is not a prophet but both God and Devil.

Others are skeptical. They call him Chrono-Man in jest, like a cheesy comic book hero. They say he has no special powers, that he's not even a genius, that he's just some guy the CIA experiments on with their timelines research to no effect. They say maybe he doesn't even exist or he's not even human- maybe he's actually computer software or an alien or maybe the government just wants you to believe he is out there watching and predicting our actions. To the cynics, he is an urban legend, a myth, a scare tactic.

To some extent, each of these assumptions are true, in the same way that every perceivable timeline is real. It's just that some perceptions are more tangibly true than others, and some timelines only exist is our minds.

This may not seem like an important difference, but if you were to ask him he would say that imagination is often more real than the sensory world.

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In this reality, the man in question is naught more than a boy genius with a strange childhood and an abnormal adolescence.

When he was a baby, he refused to mimic words or play with the mobile above his crib.

When he was one year old, he refused to make eye contact or to engage in peek-a-boo with his desperate mother.

By the time he was two years old, he had not only taught himself to read, but memorized all the books and DVDs in the house.

When he was three years old, he uttered his first words in the form of a complete sentence: "Be gone, odious wasp! You smell of decayed syllables." His parents, stunned and horrified, stopped yelling.

By the time he was four years old, he was not only quoting television in sync with the characters as shows aired, but quoting his parents before they spoke the words out-loud.

(They were generally arguing in regards to what to do about their incomprehensible son. His eerie quoting did not help matters.)

When he was six years old and one day, his parents- frustrated and hoping for the best- gave him up to a man in a black suit and a fancy badge, for a program known as Operation: Mythonomicon.

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(This origin story confirms that he is not an alien as often assumed. However, there has been some theory that he is a new type of "superhuman" via genetic mutation and that this allows him to process vast amounts of information. As Abed grew up, major biomedical research labs made offers every week to examine his brain, but his agent keeps denying these requests despite his curiosity in discovering whether he is a genetic mutation similar to the X-Men in Timeline 2. So far the Bureau has decided that he is worth more to Operation M unscarred by lab rat testing.)

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Now an adult, Abed wakes up every day at 7am. He sits up straight, stretches his arms, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. He goes through a series of calisthenics to keep his body functional: knee lifts for one minute, jumping jacks for five minutes, lunges for two minutes, etc.

At exactly 7:21am he walks to the bathroom for ablutions. He never oversleeps.

Everyday for breakfast he begins eating at 7:29am: one glass of orange juice, one bowl of fruit loops with a half cup of chocolate milk, and a hard-boiled egg with one teaspoon of hot sauce. While eating he reads the New York Times and on average three newly published best-selling novels- some light reading to start the day.

At exactly 8:15am he brings his dishes to the kitchen to wash. He never lingers, and he always finishes the crossword puzzle.

(His cupboards contain one 10oz glass, one large plate, one small plate, one set of silverware, one cereal bowl, one saucepot, and one large mixing bowl.)

Everyday at 8:20am, he walks down to the Mythonomicon headquarters at the Bureau of Alternate Timelines and Predictive Narratives down the street. From 8:35am to 10am he reads over the daily reports, then from 10am until noon he teleconferences with his supervisory agent concerning current projects.

(For lunch at noon, he eats chicken fingers, french fries, and a coke at the cafeteria table in the southernmost corner. It is the perfect distance from the heating vent and the chairs squeak pleasantly when he shifts. He listens to hip-hop through headphones while eating. He always sits alone.)

For the remainder of the workday he reads literature, constructs alternate timeline narratives, and studies the incoming news. He is laser-focused, and his attention rarely deviates from his work. On weekends, he gets to watch visual media via the Videratorium- a room full of televisions constructed like the inside of an insect's compound eye.

At 7:10pm, he leaves work and walks to the BX or Commissary to run errands. Mondays he buys food. Wednesdays he does laundry. Fridays he pays his bills. And so on.

He is home by 8:35pm. He makes a large pot of buttered noodles and rewatches favorite movies (usually one from the Kickpuncher franchises as he is active in the online fandom) or tunes in to currently airing television shows. On Tuesdays he watches Cougar Town.

After a full and rewarding day, he is in bed and asleep by 11:06pm, ready to start anew in the morning.

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To summarize, as a young adult Abed lives under the watch of secret agents at an isolated, publically unknown facility in Greendale, Colorado, as part of a classified government program to predict and control major world events. He is the lead expert on every television show, movie, book, and folk tale humans have told in this timeline, as well as several others currently under research. He uses his extensive knowledge of the way people make sense of each other through storytelling- their hopes and dreams and obsessions, their interactions and decisions and behavior- to predict their future actions. At the start of each day, he reads reports about the stock market, crime, and politics in his office for analyzation. At the end of each week, he writes out what he assumes happens next in human history. Sometimes he reports back in the form of a screenplay. Sometimes a novel or poem, depending on his mood and what form tells the story best.

His name is not Man of Time nor The Director nor Chrono-Man. He is not a prophet nor a god nor an alien nor a software program, though he considers himself somewhat of a shaman

He is a peculiar and lonesome nineteen-year-old boy.

He calls himself Abed the Undiagnosable, and he is in need of a good friend.

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One fateful Thursday this all changes.

It is a confluence of factors, really, that causes Abed's carefully constructed life to come tumbling down.

(But carefully constructed by whom? Is this routine his skeleton or his straitjacket?)

It isn't just that requested reports had become repetitive recently. Or that he hasn't read an original plot in weeks. Or that Cougar Town had been cancelled and the latest Kickpuncher movie was forestalled by six months. It isn't just the simultaneous increased pressure and abandonment by his agent supervisor. It isn't her fault.

(But is it his?)

The morning unfolds like any other. The milk at the bottom of his cereal bowl turns a delightful shade of purplish-greenish-brown like always. The crossword puzzle uses the clue "gumbo ingredient" for the fifth time since June_._ The books he reads rely heavily on Great Male Savior complexes and not enough character development.

The air is brisk and refreshing, as he heads to the office. During his short walk, he stretches his face muscles like he always does to practice expressions in preparation for chance encounters. He does not go out of his way to talk to other employees, but he does prefer to be able to put them at ease if they engage with him first. He has discovered that mimicking the relaxed smiles of friendly television characters tends to lessen the frequency of confusing jokes. These days, acquaintances only compare Abed to a robot or alien about 70% of the time.

(While he is fluent in binary, the strings of "beeps" and "boops" thrown his way translate to utter nonsense, which leads him to believe that his coworkers are comparing him to R2-D2, whose language is different from common binary. This perplexed Abed for some time as that particular robot-alien did not fit the "shunned nerdy freak" archetype he himself embodies. He then realized they were making fun of him.)

After idly memorizing the demographics statistics, crime news, and Supreme Court cases left in the office for his morning review, Abed reports to Agent Vohlers via the microphone in his office promptly at 10am.

They play out the same banter every day:

"Good morning Shaman, this is Agent Vohlers." Her voice is monotone and comforting- like peanut butter spread exactly flat across a slice of bread.

"That's Agent Shaman to you." Inserting old inside jokes maintains rapport; that's what psychology texts on bonding say.

"Shaman is already a title- I'm the agent here."

Despite the blunt, stilted sentences spoken in flat tones, he feels what is probably affection for Agent Vohlers. Previous agents he worked with attempted face-to-face meetings, which involved unnecessary small talk, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, and discussion of other people's kids. His face always hurt afterwards from pasting on appropriate expressions, and his obliviousness to their bizarre social cues often created discontent.

Agent Vohlers, on the other hand, understands his understated humor and plays along with his subtle homages. Also, due to her high-level position, she has to keep her full identity anonymous. They have never met in person, she eschews talk of her personal life, and he has never seen her face.

She is the Watson to his Sherlock; the Officer Gordon to his Batman; the Professor X to his Jean Gray.

After the banter, she launches immediately into discussion of his work. "The Department of Homeland Security found your report from Monday quite... interesting."

"In Future America, each family should be equipped with an apocalypse survival kit with all the necessary supplies to survive earthquakes, volcanos, vampires, werewolves, _definitely_ zombies-"

"Yes I understood most of that from the list of contents, but what was the hot air balloon for?"

"In case up becomes down, of course. Or if dirt mutates into flesh-eating slugs. Or to fly above dinosaurs. Or, this is my personal choice, if Earth turns to Jell-O, it would be difficult to walk and perhaps dangerous. Of course, if balloon became the primary means of travel, then urban infrastructure would have to be re-engineered-"

"I see."

"For example, hotel reception floors would be on the top floor, right under the balloon landing pads."

"Shaman, we're fighting a war on terror, not Carl Fredricksen or Flint Lockwood."

Abed ignores her interjection. "While Jell-O everywhere sounds delicious, it would turn sticky and gross after sitting out too long. Plus, what if it was only lime flavor? _That_ is a terrifying world."

The line is silent. Abed strains to hear an exhale, but it's distant, like she's stepped away from the microphone. Usually Agent Vohlers tells him exactly what she expects and doesn't presume he reads her emotions. This silence is unprecedented and strange, and Abed's stomach tightens.

"Please think more along the lines of a John Grisham novel, Shaman. Even Yeerks wielding the Imperius Curse and infiltrating the government-"

"Yeerks wouldn't need the Imperius Curse; their biology allows them the necessary stealth-"

"-from within top level officials would be fine, if you really need a fantastical starting point, but please boil it down to known principles of biology and physics when you write your reports."

"No, no, no, that's nowhere near as interesting and entirely too literal. That story has already been told, hundreds of times. I want something fresh, something new, that's why you employ me! Not the same tired tropes, you would not _believe _the drivel I've been reading recently-"

An impatient sigh. Or a frustrated sigh? Maybe she's just tired. Maybe she's just breathing air, like humans do.

"We employ you because you know those tropes, Shaman."

"_And_ I know how to subvert them-"

"What _are_ you? Do you even live on _Earth_? This isn't a game, _Abed_!"

It's the use of his given name more than anything that causes him to initiate their second stunned silence of the conversation.

The speakerphone system is functioning properly, so there's no question he would have trouble hearing her. Thus, in this instance, although he can't see a telltale red face or wrinkled brow, raised volume when speaking along with the use of his birth name instead of his casual moniker clearly must mean she is upset.

Abed doesn't know if he is supposed to react in a particular way. His head rushes with the possibilities of what will happen next, but while he always knows what a character will do next, right now he didn't know what he _should_ do next.

Eventually, he responds in a careful, quiet voice. "All physiological symptoms indicate that I am a human life form, and if you live on Earth, then I also live on Earth."

"Well, that's only logical." Her voice matches his tone. Abed is fairly sure that her mouth would be upturned slightly at the sides.

He hesitates, then relaxes and replies, "I was going more for Data's general tone, but obviously neither are-"

"Shaman," She says gently. It's less an interruption and more an invocation.

He waits.

"Shaman, sometimes I think you're the most human one of us all and that scares other people. It's just that..." She exhales into the phone. "I'm going on leave for the next four months, and you'll be reporting to Agent Coulson in the meantime. I'm under a lot of pressure to prepare you for his service properly and that's not fair to you, I'm sorry."

"Where are you going? Where would you go?" Abed starts fidgeting in his seat and stacking the papers cluttering the table.

"I... My wife and I are having a baby."

It feels like there's cotton in his throat now, and he's not sure how it got there. His skin feels prickly and his limbs are jumpy like they're covered in ants.

Agent Vohlers is his supervisor, he talks to her every day at 10am. She 's his Alfred to his Bruce Wayne. She understands his jokes. She trusts his wacky ideas come together to make sense in the end. She trusts. She understands. She's his.

She's not.

Suddenly there's no air left in the room. The camera of Abed's mind's-eye zooms way back until he is an insignificant speck seen from a birds-eye view. Abed holds his breath.

"No goodbye, you know I don't like goodbyes. See you later." He hangs up.

For the first time it occurs to Abed that Agent Vohlers exists in a whole world outside of his office, outside of government reports, outside of the speakerphone and his office; she interacts with other people, falls in love, _starts a family_. Yet he's stuck _here_, surrounded by dead people and stilted thoughts all trapped in paper, and alone. Why didn't he see this coming? Why didn't he account for this scenario? _Why doesn't he know what to do next?_

(How can he get his limbs to stop fidgeting?)

He is used to being a fly on the wall, observing the world's events. He knows how everyone else's narratives should play out; he understands human behavior on a macro scale. He is not part of the story.

(Why does his chest ache?)

Or at least he's not supposed to be.

Right?

(Where is that high pitched squealing noise coming from?)

He feels like the world is spinning, and he looks around panickedly. He notices that a section of the ceiling to his left is bowed out, and as he peers closer, several cracks spider out from the lowest point, then the drywall crashes down. Papers flutter everywhere, and, distracted, Abed is jolted out of his distress.

(The noise stops. His throat is mysteriously sore and his ears hurt.)

This kind of physical crumbling of the literal world around him nicely parallels his recent emotional upheaval; Abed appreciates the symbolism- it's a nice touch. He wonders if this is the beginning or the end. What part of the roller coaster is he on? Up or down?

Out of an air duct hanging from the ceiling slips a figure like a child from a water slide. The figure scrambles to its feet and whip around in a full circle before its crazed eyes catch on Abed. It stops abruptly, then hastily brushes off bits of insulation before adopting a wide planted stance and folding its arms across its chest.

He's a man. A boy?

The stranger quickly looks Abed up and down, then narrows his eyes and smirks. "Who're you, some kind of ceiling enthusiast? Just waiting for people to fall through and scatter bits of wall all over your books? I totally meant to do that, so watch out."

Abed cocks his head. Most people know his face. "I am the Shaman."

The stranger stares.

Abed tries again: "The Director?"

The stranger quirks a disbelieving eyebrow to go with his blank look. Abed mimics him then exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. "Chrono-man? "

"Don't mess with me, I'm an all-star quarterback and the Truest Repairman. Are you some kind of super-villain? 'Cause I'm the Messiah! " The stranger counters, with an air of bravado.

"I'm _not _an alien or a robot."

"I didn't say you were." The Repairman shifts his weight from foot to foot and recrosses his arms. "I used to be those things anyway," he mutters. "Now I'm just lost. One minute I'm hiding out in the air duct to avoid the legions of people that follow me to class, the next I'm falling through the ceiling into this office I've never seen before."

Abed lip twitches slightly up, and he points at the man-boy emphatically. "Ah-ha. This is Greendale Government Base. The Community College is in Timeline 6. Dislocated shoulders slash broken leg and Vice-Dean Laybourne? Respectively. Is that why you were hiding? Or maybe you were running away?"

The boy's face immediately crumples up, his shoulders hunch, and he throws his arms over his head protectively. "I don't know what you're talking about! I totally didn't fake those injuries, because I can totally take the pressure! Also I totally want to have no friends, live all alone in the dorm of a creepy cult, and never have any fun or adventures other than repairing Air Conditioning systems! I can totally handle it and I didn't try to run away and I'M NOT CRYING RIGHT NOW!"

He wails, throwing his head back as big fat teardrops stream down his face leaving tracks in the drywall dust settled on his cheeks. His arms hug his sides defensively, as if he's trying to physically restrain his emotion.

Abed cocks his head and mimics the boy's tone of voice while adding some exaggerated sarcasm, "I totally want my one friend to leave me to have a baby! I totally want to live all alone in a creepy government facility, and I totally want to spend my life reading government reports and never becoming Batman, and I totally don't want to find a better show to replace Cougar Town! I totally don't want to go on adventures and live my own life!"

The stranger quiets his sobbing and peers at Abed through soggy eyes in interest. He blinks a few times, hiccups wetly, then throws his arms around Abed and clings to him in a hug.

Abed tenses, keeps his arms by his side, and stands very still and stiff. The boy clutches him for a few moments longer taking in short, desperate gasps until gradually his breathing returns to normal. Abed finds his body unexpectedly relaxing and warmth flooding his stomach. His chest loosens and his hands stop fidgeting for the first time since the phonecall.

Funny how sensual hugs are. Funny how he knows what the boy's body looks like as well as how people on television look and react when hugged, but none of this prepares him for the way the boy's muscular body feels pressed against his or the way the boy's head smells like sweat and Axe. Funny how the rest of the room melts away until the whole world consists of the way the boy's hands are twisted into the back of Abed's shirt like he's afraid he might disappear.

The Repairman squeezes then lets go and steps back. Abed blinks a few times, stunned, and remains exactly still. He carefully tracks the boy's movements with his eyes, watching the boy as one would watch a dangerous, easily-spooked animal.

(Abed knows in theory how other people would respond to such strange surging emotions- derision? fear? sympathy?- but he doesn't know how _he _will react. So he waits.)

The boy, now calm, looks at him shyly, then averts his eyes and wipes his dripping nose. He runs his hands over his face and shifts his weight, trying to find the wild bravado he entered this room with. "You're really good at hugging, ya know? Like a tree, all solid and limb-y."

Abed stares at him, then glances around the wrecked room. His carefully organized papers are scattered like leaves across a forest floor. The fallen drywall is piled on top of his crushed desk, effectively destroying the speakerphone system.

He twitches his cheek. The left side of his face is buzzing warmly from where the boy's stubble brushed against it.

"If you don't want to go home, we can go back to my apartment. Have you ever heard of a show called Inspector Spacetime? It centers around two friends and deals in travels through time across dimensions and space. It might not be as good as Cougar Town, but I've been meaning to give it a shot just in case. Who knows what could happen."

The boy listens in guarded interest, then breaks out into a huge grin. It lights up his whole face. "Sounds awesome."

Abed's face jerks into what he thinks might be a smile. "Cool. Cool, cool cool. The floor is lava-flavored Jell-O, follow my lead!" He skips across the scattered reports like stepping stones, heading towards the door. The boy follows in his footsteps, bouncing with excitement.

Abed is no longer The Director hidden behind the camera or the Man of Time pulling the strings of other people's narratives.

He is a boy who has just made his first best friend.

His story starts now.


End file.
